#murder smith

[dalliansss]

Trouble in Nargothrond™️

(or, Curufin’s pirate boots. Yes, they were nicked off some random Sinda. No, don’t ask how. 🔪)

My latest commission from @sauroff ! I always love working with her! Thank you so much! 🥰🥰🥰 *weeps over the pretty lineart and colors tbh fff*

[dalliansss]

Forbidden love prompts:

“We were never going to work” Curufin/Finrod, please 🤍

—  ❛❛  //   𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙿𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙿𝙴  𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂  ://    𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙱𝙸𝙳𝙳𝙴𝙽  𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴.        (  please  substitute  pronouns  as  needed.  )    

It was Curufin who found that two-story townhouse. Built at the lower levels, at the side of Tirion-upon-Túna that faced away from the Trees and thus perpetually shadowed, it had been a dilapidated property, and Curufin channeled funds into it, had it renovated and made livable. Outside it looked the same as its neighbors, plain, and assumed to be some pompous lord's rental property. Of course, Curufin wanted it to be thought of that way. And anyway, who in their right minds would think of a prince of the Noldor having such a property in such a terrible location?

It's their hideaway, this. Has been their sanctuary for years, this modest two-floor, three bedroom house sparsely furnished. Though right now the one room upstairs they share lies in shambles around them, and Curufin and Finrod are sitting away from each other, the aftermath of the quarrel silent between them.

Curufin is still in his work clothes, sans his leather apron. Finrod still in his council robes, now rumpled. Finrod pokes at a shattered bottle of wine near him. The contents having long seeped onto the wooden floorboards. He can't help a wince. That will stain...

"We were never going to work, aren't we?" Curufin asks, voice hushed.

Finrod now inspects his nails next. "You were the one who hurried off to wed an elleth that is so incompatible with you I am amazed the marital bond formed at all. And so now you are also the one with the nuisance of a bond in your head, to stay there until the end of Arda."

"I will not regret Telperinquar," Curufin snaps in his direction. Oh this....this infuriating elf, with his golden hair and his smiles and his insane charisma that draws even the Valar to him without even lifting a finger---

"Ah yes, it's all nice when Tyelpe is a baby, an elfling. Yet you will want more children, Curufinwë...and your little wife would either give you another one, or, I don't know, you'll have to take your time in the broom cupboard in the jewelshop."

Fury in Curufin's silver eyes. Devil from Udûn! Wraith from Utumno! This Eru-forsaken Findaráto Ingoldo, infuriating-- beautiful beyond compare yet striking like a snake where he knows it hurts Curufin the most, this--

He crosses the room and yanks a handful of that hateful, but terribly beloved golden hair, and their quarrel flares anew -- shoves and snarls, yanks and pulls and--

Like all their previous quarrels, it ends up predictably, this session. Clothes off, limbs tangled. Curufin simply pulls Finrod closer into his hold, his other hand's fingers possessively twining strands of the other's golden hair around.

"Fuck you, Ugly. You dare criticize me for marrying Helwë," says Curufin. "When you strut around with your little perfect Vanya princess. Hmph. She makes me want to puke, with how she hangs from your arm and how she smiles whenever you tote her around in the great feasts and festivals and balls--"

Finrod laughs. That ugly, snorting, snork-laugh of his that he never does in public. Snorting. Like a damn pig. "At least, I will not shackle myself with a bond that not even death will eradicate, Frogpiss. I will delay as long as I can, citing this and that, this and this, that and that, and I will find a means to--." He abruptly cuts himself short. Curufin scowls deeply.

He grips Finrod by the jaw and makes the golden elf look at him. "You'll find a means to what?" Curufin snarls, his nails digging into Finrod's perfect skin.

"To sail east," Finrod says, pushing on in equal viciousness, spitting the words very much like a snake spitting venom. "Yes, bastard, I will sail east, leave your sorry, pathetic arse -- unless you bundle up your son as I will bundle up Aikanár, and leave with me."

It is only the last part of the statement that makes Curufin stop himself from really hurting Finrod. He studies that infuriatingly beautiful face -- those summer blue eyes, those long, curling lashes, those golden eyebrows--

He kisses him. (They're mad. It's the only explanation for this tumultuous relationship. Whoever sane would keep seeing Curufin when he is wed? Only Finrod was insane enough.)

"Can you wait?" Curufin hisses. "Wait until the boys are grown-- and then we ask them, then we take them along--!"

Finrod shoves him off. "Stinker," the older elf says, already getting up and padding to the bathroom. Curufin snarls. He scrambles up and rushes to follow his lover.

[dalliansss]

If the prompts are still up, Curufin saying the ‘i think I am a comedian’ prompt from the intoxication ones with some Finrod/Curufin? 🏳️‍🌈

xx

intoxication starters

“I’m telling you, I’m the funniest person in the world right now. I should be a stand-up comedian!”

Celegorm eyes his brother askance; Curufin was drunk -- drunker than what he would normally tolerate himself to be. It is beyond wobbling steps and biting jokes now; this time, he has crossed the threshold that he has not, ever, even in Aman: he is delirious, and he's babbling. Celegorm thinks that he should have stopped Curufin three bottles earlier, but he had allowed his brother to continue dousing himself with the mulled wine.

He knows that it has something to do with Curufin sneaking about in their suites, holding his own shoes and trying to be silent, forgetting that his brother is a Great Hunter of Oromë; had keener senses than most Eldar, and that they had Huan in the suites with them. Celegorm had heard Curufin trying to shush Huan, and he'd gotten out of bed, stunned, and opened the door. Curufin was indeed there, holding his own shoes, trying to shush Huan. The wolfhound was excited, wagging his tail, looking expectant.

But what made Celegorm gape was the fact that Curufin looked as if he had been mauled by a beast: his brother's usually pristine, ponytailed hair a cloud of messy tangles, his tunic half askew, and under the candlelight Celegorm could clearly see love marks dotting Curufin's neck and clavicle area.

That, and his brother smelled so much like their cousin Ingoldo that it was obscene.

They'd stared at each other. Curufin clammed up, glared, and spat vitriol, snarling, don't ask me questions and I'll tell you no lies! and Celegorm, easy-going, simply raised his hands and gaped as Curufin escaped to the bathroom.

So now, five days later, Curufin gets himself as drunk as Tulkas during the High Feast at Almaren, slurring, throwing cursewords at some inexistent opponent or else himself, and now he declares himself to be a stand-up comedian, and he is funny.

Manwë's sinful nostrils, Curufin could be funny, if he shed all the scowling.

"Why are you funny then, hanno? Tell me," Celegorm asks, deciding to humor his brother. He has an arm around Curufin's shoulders.

Curufin sways in his seat, and his bottle of wine escapes his grip, falling to the carpeted floor with an odd thunk, spilling the drink there, staining the carpet a deep, bruise-like purple.

"I fucked Ingoldo," Curufin tells him this as if he had unearthed how to make new Silmarils. "I fucked him, and he fucked me, and I had a grand old time, Ulmo's tentacles, Turko, how can an Elda have such a sinful little--" He gesticulates with his hands, eyes wide, like an overexcited elfling being presented with food. Celegorm knew he would try to bounce too if he removed the arm by his shoulder.

"Okay," Celegorm says, without missing a beat. "What does Ingoldo have to do with your being a comedian?"

"Because the--because the damn elf plays me like a---a----like one of his harps!!" Curufin declared hotly, turning to him and shoving him on the chest. It would be otherwise painful but Curufin is too drunk for any real strength. "And-- I--- can't---stop---!"

Celegorm whistles. By the Valar, Ingoldo, what-- did you suck his fëa out of his cock--?

Curvo lets out an angry, frustrated, petulant growl. He stands-- sways dangerously enough that Celegorm leaps onto his feet, ready to catch him, but Curufin doesn't fall. He clutches handfuls of his dark hair, and in his drunken frustration he eerily resembles Fëanáro, so much so that Celegorm took a step backwards.

"He's driving me mad, he's driving me mad," Curufin babbles, eyes wild. "He knows what he's doing, the snake. Ha! The emblem of his house is rightly a snake! Fuck him! Fuck him! He knows he's got his fragrant finger wrapped around me, fuck him-- I won't---nobody will take him from me, Turko! Nobody!"

An outraged cry from the shorter elf, and Celegorm freezes as Curufin grabs him by the shoulders and attempts to shake him. This is very funny, because in their family, Curufin is the shortest of the lot.

"I'll kill anyone who tries to take Ingoldo from me! I'll kill them! I'll cut them in half with Angrist! Maim them--"

"Ai, you do that, Curvo," Celegorm says, internally cringing. He frees himself from his brother's hold, and he sits Curufin back down. "You do that. You show those perverted lords and Edain who's residing up Ingoldo's Telerin skirt, you show them, dammit."

"I'll sunder with Helwë completely, and I'll wed him!" Curufin declares. "I will! Then I will be King Consort of Nargothrond! Nelyo--- Nelyo can't look down on me then! Bastard! Look, I got the crown you threw away! I got it back! I got it b--"

Ah, yes, Celegorm thinks as the vomiting begins. He nudges the wooden bucket in front of Curufin, who grabs it, holds onto it, and begins emptying his stomach into it.

He watches, still, as Curufin relocates near the bed, hugging his bucket, and leans his head on one of the bed posts. "I got a plan. I got a plan. I got a plan. Laugh, Turko. I'm a comedian. Laugh, fuck you. Laugh."

"Uh-huh," Celegorm stands. Time to make the trip to Lady Eliril, ask her for her most potent hangover cure. "You stay there and stay alive, eh, Curvo?" He whistles, and Huan comes bounding into the room, tail wagging. "Watch over our poor, besotted drunken elf, will you, boy? Good."

Celegorm leaves, and Huan plants himself beside Curufin, and Curufin leans into the wolfhound's fur now, babbling still about golden hair, jewelry, perfume, and lips that he, Curufin, can't stop kissing.

[dalliansss]

Finrod is eating. He tears into the perfectly-cooked chicken tenders with bare, oily fingers, taking apart a morsel, raising said morsel to his moist, softly-pink lips, and there is here a glimpse of perfectly-aligned teeth; the pink insides of a mouth, and the warm, cooked meat is imbibed, and Finrod makes a sound of delight, innocent perhaps to others there by the table, but to Curufin, it is anything but. A long string of mmmmmmmmmmmmmmhhh…! And Finrod licks his fingertips, a quick flick of the tip of his tongue, and then he puts the ends of his right index and middle fingers into his mouth, sucks on them for about five seconds, and he resumes tearing another morsel of the chicken tender on hand, and repeats the entire process.

(That jawline and neck he has bruised with his nips and biting kisses; those lips he has smeared with things truly not for eating; those perfect teeth he has licked, that mouth, ah, that mouth– he has delved in it and found wonders that the Valar were never capable of bringing into existence.)

[AO3]

[dalliansss]

If you're taking prompts- 14 for the intoxication ask with curufinrod? If not please ignore ahshdh

intoxication starters || “Let’s have this conversation when we’re both in a more coherent state.”

Curufinwë Atarinkë regrets every damn day that Tyelkormo chose to flee to Nargothrond, rather than flee to Amon Ereb, or even Dolmed, at the end of the Dagor Bragollach. It has nothing to do with the glory and majesty of the underground realm (they had ores, here, ores that were not found in Himlad or the mountains of Dorthonion and Aglon, and if for those ores alone, Curufinwë was willing to stay in Nargothrond); his annoyance (unjustly, perhaps, and undeserved) was directed mostly at their cousin, this Findaráto Ingoldo.

Currently, said Ingoldo was sitting at the head of the long table. It is a feast held in honor of the first bountiful harvest since the Bragollach, and Nargothrond is filled with light and music and singing, and all the lords and citizens were given much gifts, food and wine. Curufinwë and his brother were of course guests of honor, being kin to the King, and so therefore sat by his table.

Look at him, Curufin thinks moodily, as he watches Ingoldo over the rim of his bejeweled goblet: clad in his Telerin skirt, shirtless, wearing the Nauglamír (which, Curufin reluctantly agreed, surpassed even his own craftsmanship), many earrings and earrings -- look at his stupidly beautiful face as he leads another toast, look at him smiling, radiant, more radiant than the damn diamonds in the--

He. Is. Annoying. Curufin has decided this, resolutely, during the first few days of their stay in Nargothrond. The Ingoldo that ruled here was a very far cry from the prim-and-proper (or how prim and proper applied to him) one he remembered from Aman. One who wore Telerin outfits only in the safety of his own household, or else in Alqualondë, where they were appropriate and would not offend very Noldorin sensibilities. Ingoldo, for some inexplicable reason, was akin to a bird loosened from a cage -- flying about, singing in all directions, flapping radiant wings, a nuisance--

Curufin brooded as he watched and drank, and the more he drank the more intoxicated he got, and he follows Ingoldo with his gaze still, as he stood up to get in costume with his niece Finduilas. They dressed as maiar of Manwë -- costumes with iridescent wings and feathered crowns and great golden silks -- and they circled each other as they Sang, of free skies ever-blue under Arien's golden rays. It is a treat, thus, to see and hear Ingoldo and Finduilas sing, talented as they are with it -- but Curufin continues to brood and be annoyed, and he thinks, out of spite, that Ingoldo will never equal Maglor anyway.

He dances with nobody. Ever since his wife, Helwë, had refused to go with him in Exile, Curufin had always carried himself as a grieving widower, telling anyone who asked and listened that they were sundered. It hurt Telperinquar, he knew, but it was the truth -- Helwë abandoned them both as Nerdanel abandoned her husband and her sons, in turn.

And, again, circling back -- Curufin finds his annoyance mounting the more days they spend in Nargothrond, the more days he follows Ingoldo with his gaze. This wanton golden one, flouting all known rules of decorum save the very grave, dressing this way and that, sometimes early in council and sometimes not attending at all, driving him and Orodreth mad with his unpredictability, his penchant for avoiding his responsibilities as king, foisting paperwork onto others while he gallivanted around, singing like the pestilential nuisance he is, this--

Ingoldo withdraws from the partying soon, and Curufin quickly abandons his drink. He stalks after him, down dimly-lit hallways, his ears tuned to the jingling of Ingoldo's many jewelry, his nose intent on that sweet, sweet perfume emanating from such golden hair, and gold, gold--gold, Curufin knew how to work, to make malleable, to melt--

He stalks after Ingoldo, all the way to the hallway leading to the King's Chambers. There are no guards here tonight, not when Ingoldo ordered everybody to join in the festivities, cleverly-done really, knowing exactly when the common rabble needed crumbs to satiate and uplift spirits.

Curufin sees him. There he is, trailing his radiant self, almost to his double doors. He stumbles forward, reaches, and he grabs a fistful of Ingoldo's Telerin skirt.

"Ai!" the elf-king exclaims, and he whirls around in gold and much clinking of jewelry.

Madness, perhaps, in Curufin's silver eyes as he grabs Ingoldo by the neck, pins him against the wall, and kisses him -- rough, hungry, needy, clumsy -- more teeth than lips, enough to bruise, and he tastes wine and it makes him even more intoxicated, how dare Ingoldo walk like that , seducing him, how d--

Laughter fills Curufin's ears as Ingoldo tears his lips free. Laughter, still, as Curufin tries to kiss what bare skin he can reach, and in the Fëanorian's alcohol-ridden mind, he thanks the Valar that Ingoldo is wearing a skirt, so easily pushed up, and they will make do with the wall--

But Ingoldo backhands him across the face, and Curufin stumbles back, stunned, anger already boiling in his chest, swamping out his desire--

"I will not fuck you in the hallway, Curufinwë," Ingoldo laughs. "You can barely stand. Do you think you can reach completion in such a state? Ai, I hate lovers who leave me unfulfilled!"

"You--you wretched--" He lunges forward, clumsy and stupid, but Finrod skips to the side, jingling, glowing, radiant, mocking--

"Let's have this conversation when we're both in a more coherent state," Ingoldo's voice comes from somewhere behind him, near his left ear, and Curufin whirls around, wanting, wanting, wanting--

But Ingoldo is gone, and he can only hear the sound of the door clicking shut, and Curufin grabs the nearest vase from its plinth and hurls it toward the door -- he misses, and the vase shatters instead on the floor.

He drives me insane! This cannot continue!

Accursed elf. Accursed desires. Accursed. All of them, accursed. He is, too. Curufin presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, and he growls, and he takes his defeated self away now, to seek out the suites he shares with Turko and Tyelpe, and there he may drown his misery in the cold waters of a bath.

@curufinswife